The Heart's Victory (18 page)

“I'm taking pictures, of course.” With a grin, Foxy continued to load her camera. “I make a habit of it, that's why I'm a photographer.”

“Ah yes, I did hear that.” As she bent her head over her work, the sunlight shot small flames through her hair. With admiration, Jonathan watched them flare. “Professional, are you?”

“That's what I tell the publishers.” Finished, she closed the camera and gave Jonathan her attention again. The resemblance to his sister was striking, yet she felt no discomfort with him as she had with Gwen. He was, she thought on another quick study, an exact opposite of Lance: fair and smooth and harmless. Instantly annoyed with her habitual comparisons, she gave him her best smile. “I'm working on a project with children at the moment.”

Jonathan studied her, taking in the easy smile, the large gray-green eyes, the face that became more intriguing each time it was seen. He completed his examination in a matter of seconds and decided Lance had won again. This was no ordinary lady. “May I watch awhile?” he asked, surprising them both. “I have the afternoon free. I was just crossing to my car when I spotted you.”

“Of course.” She bent to retrieve her camera case. “But I'm afraid you might find it boring.” Turning, she began to walk in the direction of the Mill Pond.

“I doubt that. I rarely find beautiful women boring in any circumstances.” Jonathan fell into step beside her. Foxy cast him a sidelong look. He had the smile of the boy next door and the profile of an Adonis. Melissa, Foxy mused, is going to have her hands full.

“What do you do, Jonathan?”

“As I please,” he answered as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Theoretically, I'm an executive in the family business. Import-export. In reality, I'm a paper shuffler who charms wives when necessary and escorts daughters.”

Humor sparkled in Foxy's eyes. “Do you enjoy your work?”

“Immensely.” When he looked down with his easy grin, she decided he and Melissa were ideally suited for each other.

“I enjoy mine as well,” she told him. “Now stand out of the way while I do some.”

There was a bench by the pond where a willow dipped into the mirrorlike water. A woman sat reading while a chubby toddler in a bright red jacket tossed crackers to paddling ducks. Nearby, an infant snoozed in a stroller in a square of sunshine. A forgotten rattle hung limply in the curled fingers. After exchanging a quiet word with the woman on the bench, Foxy set to work. Taking care not to disturb him, she captured the delight of the toddler as he threw his crumbs high in the air. Ducks scrambled for the free meal. The boy squealed with pleasure and tossed again, sometimes sampling a cracker himself while the ducks vied for the soggy offering. She translated the sound of his laughter onto film.

Using sun and shade, she expressed the peace and innocence of the fat-cheeked infant. Changing angles, speeds and filters, she altered moods and heightened emotions, until, satisfied, she stopped and let the camera hang by its strap.

“You're very intense while you work,” Jonathan commented as he moved up to join her. “You look very competent.”

“Is that a compliment or an observation?” Foxy asked him, then snapped on her lens cover.

“A complimentary observation,” Jonathan countered. He continued to study her profile as she secured her equipment. “You fascinate me, Foxy Matthews. I find you one more reason to envy Lance.”

“Do you?” She looked up, revealing a guileless interest that surprised him. “And are there many others?”

“Scores,” he said promptly, then took her hand. “But you're at the top of the list. Is it true your brother's Kirk Fox and that Lance snatched you from the racing world?”

“Yes.” Foxy was immediately on guard. Her tone cooled. “I grew up at the racetrack.”

Jonathan lifted a brow. “I've struck a nerve. I'm sorry.” He ran his thumb absently across her knuckles. “Would it help if I said I'm curious, not critical? Lance's racing career also fascinates me, and I've followed your brother's as well. I thought you might have some interesting stories to tell.” His voice, Foxy noted, was not like Gwen's; it was far too honest.

“I'm sorry.” She sighed and moved her shoulders. “That's the second time today I've been overly sensitive. It's a bit difficult being the new kid on the block.”

“You were a bit of a surprise.” His touch was so light that Foxy had forgotten he still held her hand. “There are those who require everything well planned and predictable. Lance seems to prefer the unique.”

“Unique,” Foxy murmured, then shot Jonathan a direct, uncompromising stare. “I don't have any money, I haven't a pedigree. I spent my adolescent years around garages and mechanics. I didn't go to an exclusive college, and all I've seen of Europe is what I could squeeze in between time trials and races.”

Watching her, Jonathan observed the tiny flecks of unhappiness in her eyes. Sunlight flickered through the willow leaves to catch the highlights of her hair. “Would you like to have an affair?” he asked casually.

Stunned, Foxy stepped back, her eyes huge. “No!”

“Have you ever ridden on the swan boat?” he inquired just as easily.

Her mouth opened and closed twice in utter confusion. “No,” she managed cautiously.

“Good.” He took her hand again. “We'll do that instead.” He smiled, keeping her fingers tightly in his. “All right?”

Warily Foxy studied his face. Before she realized it, a smile began to tug at the corners of her mouth. “All right,” she agreed.
Melissa will never be bored,
she decided as she let Jonathan lead her away.

“Would you care for a balloon?” His voice took on a formal note.

“Yes, thank you,” she returned in a matching tone. “A blue one.”

The next two hours were the most carefree Foxy had spent since she had begun her social duties as Mrs. Lance Matthews. With Jonathan, she glided on the Mill Pond, tucked in a swan boat with tourists and sticky-fingered preschoolers. They walked through the gardens eating ice cream with Foxy's balloon trailing on its string at their backs. She found him undemanding, easy to talk to, a tonic for depression.

When Jonathan pulled up in front of the brownstone, Foxy's mood was still light. “Would you like to come in?” She shifted the strap of her case onto her shoulder. “Perhaps you could stay for dinner.”

“Another time. I have a dinner engagement with Melissa.”

“Tell her hello for me.” With a smile, Foxy opened her door. “Thank you, Jonathan.” On impulse, she leaned across the seat and kissed his cheek. “I'm sure it was much more fun than an affair, and so much simpler.”

“Simpler anyway,” he agreed, then brushed a finger down her nose. “I'll see you and Lance on Saturday.”

“Oh, yes.” Foxy made a face before she slid from the car. “Oh, tell Melissa I totally approve of her plans for May.” She laughed at his puzzled face, then waved him away. “She'll know what I mean.” Slamming the door, she shivered once in the cooling air before moving up the path to the house. The front door opened as she reached for the knob.

“Hello, Foxy.” Lance stood in the doorway. With a quick scan, he took in her smile, bright eyes, and blue balloon. “Apparently you've had an enjoyable afternoon.”

Her buoyant mood left no place for remnants of anger from yesterday's argument. They could talk and be serious later, now she wanted to share her pleasure. “Lance, you're home early.” She was glad to find him waiting and smiled again.

“Actually, I believe you're home late,” he countered as he shut the door behind her.

“Oh?” A look at her watch told her it was nearly five. “I didn't realize. I suppose I lost track of the time.” With the balloon tied jauntily to its strap, Foxy set down the camera case. “Have you been home long?”

“Long enough.” He studied her autumn-kissed cheeks. “Want a drink?” he said as he turned and walked back into the drawing room.

“No, thank you.” His coolness had seeped through Foxy's elated spirits. She followed him, calculating the best way to bridge the gap before it widened further. “We didn't have any plans for this evening, did we?”

“No.” Lance poured a generous helping of scotch into a glass before he turned back to her. “Do you intend to go out again?”

“No, I...” She stopped, paralyzed by the ice in his eyes. “No.”

He drank, watching her over the rim. The tension that had flown from her during the afternoon returned. Still, she could not yet bring herself to speak of Kirk or racing. “I ran into Jonathan Fitzpatrick in the public gardens,” she began, unbuttoning her jacket in order to keep her hands busy. “He brought me home.”

“So I noticed.” Lance stood with his back to the wide stone fireplace. His face was cool and impassive.

“It was beautiful out today,” Foxy hurried on, fretting for a way out of the polite, meaningless exchange. Warily, she watched Lance pour another glass of scotch. “There seem to be a lot of tourists still, but Jonathan said they slack off during the winter.”

“I had no idea Jonathan was interested in the tourist population.”

“I was interested,” she corrected, then pulled off her jacket with a frown. “It was crowded in the swan boats.”

“Did Jonathan take you?” Lance asked mildly before he tossed back the contents of his glass. “How charming.”

“Well, I hadn't been before so he—”

“It appears I've been neglecting you,” he interrupted. Foxy's frown deepened as he lifted the bottle of scotch again.

“You're being ridiculous,” Foxy stated as her temper began to rise. “And you're drinking too much.”

“My dear child, I haven't begun to drink too much.” He poured another glass. “And as for being ridiculous, there are some men who would cheerfully beat a wife who spends afternoons with other men.”

“That's a Neanderthal attitude,” she snapped. She tossed her jacket into a chair and glared at him. “It was perfectly harmless. We were in a public place.”

“Yes, buying balloons and riding on swans.”

“We had an ice cream cone as well,” she supplied and jammed her hands into her pockets.

“Your tastes are amazingly simple.” Lance glanced briefly into his glass before lifting it and swallowing. “For someone in your current position.”

Her shocked gasp was trapped by the obstruction in her throat. Absolutely still, she stood while all color drained from her face. Against the pallor, her eyes were dark with hurt. Swearing richly, Lance set down his glass.

“That was below the belt, Fox, I'm sorry.” He started toward her, but she backed away, throwing out her hands to ward him off.

“No, don't touch me.” She took quick, deep breaths to control the tremor in her voice. “I've had to listen to the innuendos, I've had to put up with the knowing smirks and tolerate the sniping, but I never expected it from you. I'd rather you had beat me than said that to me.” Turning quickly, she fled up the stairs. Before she could slam the bedroom door, Lance caught her wrist.

“Don't turn away from me,” he warned in a low, even voice. “Don't ever turn away from me.”

“Let go of me!” she shouted, trying to pull away from him. Before she thought about what she was doing, she swung out with her free hand and slapped him.

“All right,” he said between his teeth as he locked both her arms behind her back. “I had that coming, now calm down.”

“Just take your hands off me and leave me alone.” She struggled for release but was only caught tighter.

“Not until we settle this. There are some things that have to be explained.”

“I don't need to explain anything.” She tossed her head to free her eyes from her hair. “Now take your hands off me. I can't bear it.”

“Don't push me too far, Foxy.” Lance's voice was as dark and dangerous as his eyes. “I'm running low on self-control, particularly after last night. Now calm down, and we'll talk.”

“I don't have anything to say to you.” Cold with fury, she stopped struggling and stared up at him. “I had my say yesterday, and you've had yours tonight. It looks like we understand each other well enough.”

“Then we won't talk,” Lance said harshly before his mouth came down on hers. With an iron grip, he handcuffed her wrists so that her frantic movements were useless. There was something calculating as well as brutal in the kiss. She recognized the same ruthlessness she knew him to be capable of in racing. Knowing her struggles were futile, she forced her body to go limp and her mouth to remain passive. “Ice won't work,” Lance muttered and lifted her off her feet. “I know how to melt it.”

As he began to carry her to the bed Foxy's passive acceptance disappeared. “No!” Desperately she tried to free herself from his arms. “Lance, don't, not like this.” She pushed hard against his chest and felt herself falling. Her small cry of alarm was knocked from her as she hit the mattress. Before she could roll away, he was on top of her.

His body molded itself to hers. As she turned her head his hand locked on her jaw, holding her face still as his mouth took hers again. Quickly, as though her struggles were nonexistent, he began to undress her. There was determination without passion in his movements. He didn't look for partnership now, but for capitulation. Foxy's body heated to his touch even as she fought for freedom. Her sweater and jeans were tossed carelessly to the floor and the thin chemise she wore was no barrier against his hands. Her nipples were taut against the silk as he sought the sensitive hollow of her throat with his lips and tongue. She continued to struggle even as his hand moved down the silk to the flatness of her stomach. His fingers moved roughly over the top of her leg where the chemise ended.

Desire surged through her, weighing on her limbs as she pushed and twisted. She knew she needed to escape not only from him but from herself. Her movements brought only more arousal. With his tongue, he traced the peak of her breast through the chemise, catching it then between his teeth as her fingers dug into his shoulders. He exploited her weaknesses, explored the secrets only he knew until the fire kindled and flared. She responded. She arched against him now not in protest, but in answer. Hungrily her mouth sought his as her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. His skin was hot against her palms, his muscles tight.